نخی که از قم رد شد

نخی که از قم رد شد

در شب‌های خاموش دهه‌ی ۱۳۰۰، در دل تهران، صدای گام‌های سنگین تاریخ آرام‌آرام بر سنگ‌فرش سلطنت پهلوی پیچید. رضاخان که حالا شاه بود، می‌دانست برای بقای تاج و تختش، باید هم زمان با شمشیر، از قلم نیز بهره ببرد. در این میان، مردی با عینک گرد و عبایی ساده وارد شد: محمدعلی فروغی. نه سرباز بود، نه عالمِ دین؛ اما عقلش بر نیزه‌ی قدرت سوار شد.

او مأموریتی پیچیده بر دوش داشت: از یک‌سو رضا شاه را به ثباتی فرنگی‌پسند برساند و از سوی دیگر، قمِ شیعه را با تهرانِ سلطنت آشتی دهد. و چه جایی بهتر از قم که هم کانون روحانیت باشد و هم نقطه‌ی اتصال به شبکه‌ای جهانی‌تر: علوی‌ها، آغاخان، و خطوط پنهان بریتانیا.

فروغی، با تدبیری پنهان، نقشه‌ای سه‌گوش را طراحی کرد.

در ضلع نخست مثلث، آغاخان سوم ایستاده بود؛ رهبر اسماعیلیان، دوست فرنگی‌ها، آشنا با دربار و چهره‌ای جهانی. او با علوی‌هایی که از هند و سوریه به ایران می‌آمدند در ارتباط بود. و در ضلع دوم، علوی‌ها که از راه‌های مرزی وارد قم و تهران می‌شدند. برخی‌شان اهل علم، برخی مبلغ، برخی مأمور.

رضاشاه که نگران پیوندهای غیرایرانی این جریان‌ها بود، با بی‌اعتمادی نظاره می‌کرد. اما فروغی لبخند زد و گفت:
«پادشاهی که با کلمه‌ها حکومت نکند، تاجش را روزی واگذار خواهد کرد.»

او تولیت مدرسه‌های علمیه در قم را بر عهده گرفت. نه به نیت نشر دین، که به نیت نظارت. طلبه‌هایی از لبنان، سوریه، حتی کشمیر، وارد حوزه شدند. در ظاهر همه چیز آرام بود. اما اتاقی کوچک در مدرسه فیضیه، محلی برای گفت‌وگوی بی‌صدا میان سه ضلع بود: جاسوس بریتانیایی، عالم هندی، و نماینده‌ای از تهران.

با رفتن رضا شاه و آمدن محمدرضا پهلوی، این مثلث از نو ترسیم شد. این‌بار چهره‌ها تغییر کردند، اما فروغی ـ حالا استاد سیاست نرم ـ هنوز تا لحظه‌ی مرگ نخ‌چینِ بازی بود.

علوی‌ها همچنان در قم می‌چرخیدند. آغاخان دوم با پسرش از دور نظاره می‌کردند، و محمدرضا که بیشتر از پدر اهل بازی فرنگی بود، با یک چشم به لندن می‌نگریست و با چشم دیگر به فیضیه.

قم دیگر فقط شهر علم نبود. شهری شده بود که در آن، مثلثی خاموش اما نافذ، سیاست ایران را شکل می‌داد. و فروغی، با همه‌ی آرامشش، آن نخی بود که دو سر زمان را ـ از رضاشاه تا انقلاب ـ در یک نقطه گره زد: قم.

#بهنام محترمی#

Trump,a sign of an old pattern

Trump, a sign of an old pattern? Non -assassinated assassinations with Mossad and MI6

Political - Security Analysis July 1 / July 1

With the official release of former US President Donald Trump's news of chronic venous failure (CVI), there has been a wave of analysis and doubts about the cause and origin of his illness in the world's media and political space. Some consider this to be solely due to age and stress. But another group, looking at the historical background and biological removal tools in recent decades, believe Mossad and MI6

The troops that did not sound

Mossad and MI6, two intelligence services that have collaborated on numerous joint projects from the Middle East to Latin America, have a long history of physical elimination of leaders, scientists, clergy, and influential figures - not with bullets or bombs, but with gradual poisoning, biological shock, and silent shock.

In cases such as:

Yasser Arafat (radioactive poisoning - 1)

Mahmoud al -Mubahu (assassination with injectable materials in Dubai - 1)
There are similarities that are also consistent with the Trump disease scenario.

Trump, why is it a threat?

In recent months, Trump has taken positions that have actually threatened the security order of the West, especially Israel and the United Kingdom:

Criticism of endless war in Ukraine

A desire to agree with Russia and even Iran

Very high oil contracts without the presence of the UK
• Claims to Canada, which is under the auspices of the UK
.. .Proximity to Mossad agents no matter what Israel is England
. Carrying the British role in the interests of the Middle East
For Tel Aviv, London Trump, who does not allow Israel to fire in the region, is a potential threat to the Greater Israeli project, regional security, and its intelligence ties with the United StatesSymptoms that have appeared in Trump's body - including bruises on the hand, foot swelling, sudden intravenous failure, and excessive fatigue - correspond to the scenarios performed by Mossad in the past. The use of invisible dissolved compounds in DMSO, water or clothing trace poisons, and venous system stimulation has been seen for many years among the Mossad operations classified documents. Has the united intelligence agencies in the West preferred to do so before the end of the presidency, which is always difficult to prove a silent assassination, but what is certain is that Mossad and Mi6 have repeatedly eliminated figures that were purely ideological or nationalist in the past yearsMilitary.

martial
soldier
trooper
Trump, although the president is a superpower, but in the eyes of some structures, it is an unpredictable deviation in the path of world order - and history has shown that such deviations are always in the shadow.

#moht

#Newspaper#Call 1#mohtaramiBehnam

Love

(by Behnam Mohtaramy )

The sounds were music from the heart
And your gaze… a song I believed in
long before I ever heard it.

My heart trembled—
not from fear,
not from doubt,
but from something like
the sudden discovery of love.

You were there—
the moon framed in the window,
a hidden breeze,
and I—
caught in the silence of all I never said.

Words faded.
My heart turned to your eyes,
to the trembling of hands,
to a silence that became poetry between us.

Somewhere between a word and a kiss,
we never said “I love you”
but we heard it—clearly,
without sound.

We left words behind.
Only the embrace remained—
warm, honest, without reason or need.

And in that embrace,
came a soft sound,
a hush, a hum,
like a lullaby
not from the lips
but from the rhythm of the heart.

A calm settled between us—
not from ending,
but from the beginning
of truly knowing one another.

And now…
this simplicity,
this being with you,
is what I live forever to feel.

#behnammohtarami #

Love

Love

(by Behnam Mohtaramy )

The sounds were music from the heart
And your gaze… a song I believed in
long before I ever heard it.

My heart trembled—
not from fear,
not from doubt,
but from something like
the sudden discovery of love.

You were there—
the moon framed in the window,
a hidden breeze,
and I—
caught in the silence of all I never said.

Words faded.
My heart turned to your eyes,
to the trembling of hands,
to a silence that became poetry between us.

Somewhere between a word and a kiss,
we never said “I love you”
but we heard it—clearly,
without sound.

We left words behind.
Only the embrace remained—
warm, honest, without reason or need.

And in that embrace,
came a soft sound,
a hush, a hum,
like a lullaby
not from the lips
but from the rhythm of the heart.

A calm settled between us—
not from ending,
but from the beginning
of truly knowing one another.

And now…
this simplicity,
this being with you,
is what I live forever to feel.

#behnammohtarami #

The secret of Arbella

The Secret of Arbella

Everyone knew her as Arbella Trump; the beautiful granddaughter of the former President of the United States, a girl raised among the pomp of aristocratic palaces and silent bodyguards. From time to time, the media would publish pictures of her: large eyes, olive skin, and dark curly hair—bearing no resemblance to the Scandinavian heritage of her mother, Ivanka. Donald Trump always spoke of her with a forced smile but never brought her much into the public eye.

But there was something no one knew—except Ivanka. A secret that began years ago on a rainy night in Dubai.

On the eve of her sixteenth birthday, Arbella found a letter without a sender in her room. The letter was written in Persian.

My daughter... When you read this, you probably won’t know me anymore. I am your father. A father who was never allowed to be by your side. You are half Iranian; your roots come from a land that still speaks under the moonlight...

Arbella, who had never read Persian, could not understand what was written. But with every word, a strange feeling welled up inside her. That night, she dreamed of a man with a short beard and dark eyes calling her from within the flames.

Ivanka had hidden this secret for years. When she was working on a project in Dubai, she secretly entered Iran. An Iranian man—a silent revolutionary, an architect, a lover—captivated her heart. The result of that love was Arbella.

But to protect her future, and to keep Trump from erasing her name from his will, Ivanka was forced to hide the secret of her Iranian father. At first, Donald wanted to eliminate the child, but when Ivanka threatened to expose his financial documents, he reluctantly agreed to let the child grow up in silence.

As Arbella grew older, the signs of her Iranian father became more apparent. She showed an unusual skill in Eastern languages, a deep feeling for Hafez’s poetry, and dreams of deserts, dome architectures, and the call to prayer echoing from minarets.

On a family trip to Venice, when they visited the old market, an old man recognized her. He whispered:

You are the girl... from the lineage of silent lions.

From that moment on, Arbella decided to discover the truth. She secretly learned Persian. She spent countless nights decoding her father’s letter. She realized her father was still alive—hidden somewhere in the heart of the Zagros Mountains.

Trump, despite his old age, was still trying to erase all traces of his daughter’s past. He had assigned a shadow team of agents to control Arbella’s connection with the outside world. But they did not know that inside her, a fire had been lit—one that would never be extinguished.

To be continued...

#Behnam_Mohtaramy_Story_TheSecretOfArbella_Ivanka#

Muharram

What is this cry that shakes the soul of all the lands?
What storm is this that sweeps across both seas and sands?

What voice is this that echoes down the silent streets?
What moan is this that flows from every wounded beat?

The earth’s own eyes are filled with tears that none can see,
As if the heart of time is bleeding silently.

Each drop of blood ignites the dark with burning flame,
Each rising fire tells the truth, unbound by shame.

From ashes born of pain and endless nights of dread,
The banner of the truth is raised above the dead.

Though tyranny may cloud the skies and dim the day,
Awakened souls will find the path and light the way.

A name that rings through ages, carved beyond all fate,
Not born of dust or time, but forged by Heaven’s gate.

From Eastern dawns the voice of justice still is heard,
A piercing call that breaks the night without a word.

Who stains their hands with blood unjust shall surely find,
A blazing wrath that burns and leaves no peace behind.

We are the flame of truth, not puppets in a game,
Our leader’s voice ignites our hearts with holy flame.

#behnammohtarami #

Alberla

The chicken that captled for another egg

In the distant time, more than the recorded date, in the hearts of the Zagros Mountains, a Jewish old man reads an old petition in a secrecy. In that scroll had come:

There will be a day when the savior of the Persian generation will rise, so it is up to you to look at the gold eggs, and because the mother is nurturing it in your nest; Even if it is not for you.

This was said to be a proverb among the small Jews of Iran:

Our chicken is copy, its egg is not mine!

But it didn't matter, because for centuries they knew that sometimes we had to become a mother for a baby who did not know her father in time.

Since then, in the alleyways of Yazd, Isfahan and Hamedan, women have emerged who covered special children under their tent; Children with dark hair, eyes full of revelation, and their birth certificate had a Hebrew name, but speaking in Persian at night.

The rabbi elders said: "They are predicted from the foregoing, we are only shadow, they are flames.

Years have passed, generations changed, and whenever a child was born with a special badge - the moon -like shoulder, or a halo of light at birth - was said to be a Jewish women.

The story was so weird that many didn't believe it, but in the old houses, there was a box in which the child's original name was kept, beside the Persian petition and the verses of the Isaiah:

From the east, a savior will come ... and the people will come together.

And so, the chickens copy, on the eggs that may not have been, but the hope of the world lies.

Arabla is the daughter of Iranian Ivanko. Iran's daughter in the United States is a trustee.

#behnammohtarami #

Love ,s wrist safa was drawn to the house of zahra

Love's wrist Safa was drawn to the house of Zahra. From the light of Hassan, light shone. As a descendant of that great king of Gohar A martyr emerged, like the dawn sun. His motto is "Shahada of the Path". He came to the field of love, out of love, good. Courage from his grandfather, loyalty from his father. Politeness in his gaze, modesty in his mind. He looked at the desert of blood and said: "Provincialism is like manhood" Heaven showed him through his gaze. What is my hand, what is my life, what is my soil, is sacrificed? If the shadow is on the

Sayyid al-Shahada #behnamemohtarami#e

Clown

Clown

In a distant land, where the velvet curtains of democracy cover a scene, there was a great play every day. In the middle of this scene, there was a clown with yellow hair, a make -up face, and a smile that you never knew or satisfied.

He was the main clown of this circus. Her hands were spinning in the air, her feet trembled, sometimes she danced, sometimes she shouted angry, sometimes for no reason, in friendship with long -standing enemies. The people of the world were laughing. Some are astonishing, some with regret, and some with fear.

But fewer people knew the threads of this clown were in the hand. Behind the scenes, behind the velvet curtains, a group was sitting. Dolls that were drawn with cold and calculated looks. They neither participated in the elections nor appeared in the streets, but they were the final decision makers.

Years ago, in the same land, he was a president with clear eyes and a bold look. "We should not let the weapons that can destroy the world will fall into the hands of anyone, especially those who do not consider any country to be their own, but are involved in everything," he said.

He stood, but he didn't stand much. A bullet at a sunny noon finished.

From that day, the clowns came one by one. Each with a new color and dress, but all in the same group. Some tried to resist, but they made the yarn tighter. One laughed, scared one, silent with promises of gold and oil.

And now, the yellow clown was rotating on stage. Sometimes to the east, sometimes to the west, sometimes with fists, sometimes with kiss. But in his eyes there was something that all had clowns: fear. Fear takes away from the hands behind the curtain, and if necessary, they are removed.

The show continues, people are still laughing. But sometimes someone in the crowd asks:

Who wrote this show?

#behnammohtarami#

From the Nile to the EU ph rates september2022

From the Nile to the Euphrates In September 2022, a curtain was drawn back at the United Nations, and behind it emerged a golden map. Not a map of the present, but of a distant past; a past that the Israeli Prime Minister spoke of with pride: This is the land promised in the Torah. From the Nile to the Euphrates. We are not new conquerors, but ancient heirs. There was a map showing Israel's borders from northern Lebanon to the Sinai Desert, from Baghdad to Amman, from Damascus to Riyadh. An old man in the corner of the room was quietly shedding tears. No one knew his name. But in his eyes was another map—a map of pain. It was not the prime minister who drew the map. Documents showed that it had come from sealed archives, a drawing by Ben-Gurion, Israel's founder, who had said years earlier: Zionism will only be complete when we return to the land God promised. In a small room in Beirut, Youssef, a history professor at American University, stared at a map. His students waited for him to speak. He said: This is not just a map. This is a rewriting of truth. This map turns religious belief into a title deed. A young student asked: But if their religious documents say this, does it also have a historical justification? Joseph paused. Then he said in a quiet voice: The Torah is a holy book, not a plotter. But politics often plays with holy books. In Amman, Riyadh, Damascus, Baghdad and Cairo, the news of the plan was on the front pages. Governments reacted. But the people… People looked in silence, at the walls, at the televisions, at the memories of their fathers. Could it really be that what "belongs to us" could one day be recorded in a book belonging to others? But the map wasn't just a border. The map was a dream. And dreams are sometimes more dangerous than reality. In Tel Aviv, a young girl named Leah was poring over Ben-Gurion's papers at the National Archives of Israel. Her grandfather was one of the early founders of the Zionist army. But unlike before, she was finding something new: In the margin of one of the maps, written in shaky handwriting: If we take the earth from the fire, will we find faith from the ashes? Leah didn't sleep that night until morning. At the end of the story, there was a world staring at a map; a map full of claims, but empty of peace. And a voice echoed in the heart of the night: God may have given the land, but has he also given the hearts? Explanation: This story attempts to portray, from a literary and political perspective, without explicit judgment, a picture of the clash between “religious beliefs” and “geographical claims.” The reference is to September 2022, Ben Gurion, and the Arab countries are real,

#behnammohtarami #

Open letter to world leaderes in defense of the security l

Open letter to world leaders in defense of the security of religious leaders In the name of God, life and wisdom. The President of the United States of America, Prime Minister of the Zionist government Hello. A group of citizens, intellectuals, human rights activists, and those interested in world peace have followed with deep concern and concern some statements and reports that indicate a direct or indirect threat to the life of the highest religious authority of Shia Muslims in Iran. It is obvious that religious leaders, regardless of nationality or religion, are symbols of the identity, spirituality, and stability of their communitiesAny harm to them would not only be an irreparable blow to millions of believers, but could also ignite the fires of violence, instability, and hatred on a regional and even global level—consequences that would haunt humanity for decades, perhaps centuries. Just as threats against the Pope, the Dalai Lama, or high-ranking officials of Al-Azhar are reprehensible and unacceptable, threats or targeting of the Shia Muslim religious leader must also be firmly rejected and condemned internationally. We expect you to: 1. Strongly condemn any threats against religious leaders. 2. Adhere to the principles of human dignity and freedom of belief. 3. Prevent religious conflicts and incitement of religious sentiments. 4. Reassure nations that the place of dialogue, coexistence, and understanding will never be filled with terror, threats, or elimination. Know that history will not forget silence or complicity with such threats, and what may be considered "geopolitical gain" today will end up harming world security and the peace of nations tomorrow. Wishing for peace, mutual respect, and deep understanding between religions and nations.

#behnammohtarami #

The faces behind the blood mask

The faces behind the blood mask

In the history of history, two names are heavier than others.

Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu.

Not because they were thoughtful, not because they brought peace;

But because every time the fire was extinguished

Their hands had matches in Austin.

They are the butchers of the century.

Every day, with a new map,

They move a line, kill the border, change the name of the lake.

But what never changes,

This is the point where the bomb must land.

With the dawn of any sun,

In a corner of the planet, the sound of the explosion is wrapped.

And those two are sitting behind their tables,

With smiles made of human skin,

And eyes that are not to pain,

Rather, they are sensitive to blood on the soil.

They feed on war.

From smoke, from the cry of mothers, from the bones under the rubble.

Their faces were once human.

But with any command of murder,

A line broke in their face.

With every false smile,

Something collapsed from their human face.

What is left now,

There are two bodies in the power outfit.

With prominent jaws, teeth that are still warm

From the fresh meat of their victims.

They say freedom,

But the words are pulled out of the wounded throat of the world.

With hands that are no longer made for caressing

But only to squeeze the trigger.

Mirrors, when they are honest,

They show their true face:

Humanistic masks

Whose back is the cruel look of the animal

With thirst for blood,

For death,

To show.

And the world,

Tired of seeing the repetition of crime in new frames,

It is only silent.

Not from ignorance,

But from this bitter truth:

Butchers are still alive.

And they are still thirsty.

#Behnam_mohtarami#History#

World peace prize

World Peace Prize

Trump again shouted, "Human beings!

I want peace, neither bomb nor danger! "

In his hand. But, the rocket was new,

He smiles with a full -fledged face!

"I am transparent," Benjamin said.

I make love with the bomb every property! "

Fired fire, then shook hands,

Which: "I'm just looking for peace, not shock!"

Both volunteer pure peace,

With a history of war and blood and ruined,

The World Council you are looking for, you thought,

That's the body of this fascinating prize?!

The baby smiled from under the rubble,

"Peace? In the style of slaughter? ”

The world was watching and laughing

To this reverse story, with a taste of denial!

One gave a medal, that one foamed,

One sat down and lined up on the corpse,

Saying peace with pride,

But the earth just sighs a bitter sigh ...

#Behnam_mohtarami__Poz_Photo_Nobel_Tramp_Track_NTanayahu_#

Policy Human Rights

Policy Human Rights

(Political Political Poetry with Classic Style)

One said to save the world,

I bring human rights to the essence!

To the laughing lips, in the fist of gunpowder,

The tail of peace, but it was killed and left!

To the lips of freedom and justice and gave

To the sub -tongue, the poison bite of the institution,

Not the sword in the fist, which signature to the floor,

But behind each letter, hundreds of dignity!

Sitting down to a crown out of blood,

Under her lip laughter,

To history, hot from those shadows,

That is thrown at the homeless people.

One over the covenant, cut the world,

To the scream of peace, the new fire,

One with a pen, the death version,

And in the name of the law, it was terror!

In the name of human rights, the razor bladed,

To his hand gun and to the lip of bad peace,

The world has taken to play open,

The slogan is rights, his job needs!

Two in the world, the storyteller of the Shorand,

Gunpowder, but well -being,

One tongue of pride is sharp,

One is two eyes because it is bearded!

Chu saw blood, laughing hard,

That is the image of peace from the tree,

Showed this art to the people,

That is liberalization means throat!

In this bitter scene, the game still

In the name of slow justice, bullying,

But the earth understands this, the story,

That is their smile on the razor ...

#behnammohtarami #

Frome the nile to the euphrates ...r

From the Nile to the Euphrates In September 2022, a curtain was drawn back at the United Nations, and behind it emerged a golden map. Not a map of the present, but of a distant past; a past that the Israeli Prime Minister spoke of with pride: This is the land promised in the Torah. From the Nile to the Euphrates. We are not new conquerors, but ancient heirs. There was a map showing Israel's borders from northern Lebanon to the Sinai Desert, from Baghdad to Amman, from Damascus to Riyadh. An old man in the corner of the room was quietly shedding tears. No one knew his name. But in his eyes was another map—a map of pain. It was not the prime minister who drew the map. Documents showed that it had come from sealed archives, a drawing by Ben-Gurion, Israel's founder, who had said years earlier: Zionism will only be complete when we return to the land God promised. In a small room in Beirut, Youssef, a history professor at American University, stared at a map. His students waited for him to speak. He said: This is not just a map. This is a rewriting of truth. This map turns religious belief into a title deed. A young student asked: But if their religious documents say this, does it also have a historical justification? Joseph paused. Then he said in a quiet voice: The Torah is a holy book, not a plotter. But politics often plays with holy books. In Amman, Riyadh, Damascus, Baghdad and Cairo, the news of the plan was on the front pages. Governments reacted. But the people… People looked in silence, at the walls, at the televisions, at the memories of their fathers. Could it really be that what "belongs to us" could one day be recorded in a book belonging to others? But the map wasn't just a border. The map was a dream. And dreams are sometimes more dangerous than reality. In Tel Aviv, a young girl named Leah was poring over Ben-Gurion's papers at the National Archives of Israel. Her grandfather was one of the early founders of the Zionist army. But unlike before, she was finding something new: In the margin of one of the maps, written in shaky handwriting: If we take the earth from the fire, will we find faith from the ashes? Leah didn't sleep that night until morning. At the end of the story, there was a world staring at a map; a map full of claims, but empty of peace. And a voice echoed in the heart of the night: God may have given the land, but has he also given the hearts? Explanation: This story attempts to portray, from a literary and political perspective, without explicit judgment, a picture of the clash between “religious beliefs” and “geographical claims.” The reference is to September 2022, Ben Gurion, and the Arab countries are real,

#behnammohtarami#

Love frome looking to hugs

Love from looking to hugs

Saw you on you, the heart of the place, from the place,

Because the wind came to the air, the air was in the air.

Your look was the sun and I butterfly,

That I hit you, unassuming and impatient.

Your lips kissed the thirsty life,

Because soft rain, on the desert dry soil.

Hand in your hand, the world became soft and soft,

Every moment our love flowed into the hearts.

I was in your arms, suture and sleepless,

My body was melted in the song of those kisses.

The whole world is off, only our voice,

The hearts patrol, in our garden.

#behnammohtarami#

Love from looking to hugs

Love from looking to hugs

At first glance the heart was full of passion,

Because a light blossom became the spring of light.

Your eyes had the magic of aroma and color,

That every breath has taken me to you slowly.

Your steps were a cute whisper and Nova,

In my life, thousands of passion and sacrifice.

A kiss on your lips like the rain,

The thumb for every sadness from the heart, the blue.

Hand in your hand, warm and soft and simple,

He took John to the height of the dream.

In your arms, the world turned off,

It was the only sound of heartbeat and enough.

Every moment was the most beautiful poem with you,

Our love became the story of the infinite, silver.

#behnammohtarami#

Look poetry

Look poetry

In the eyes of the hundreds of the world of sonnets.

The beginning of love is the end of every invisible.

Every breath, drunken song and restlessness,

Because the smell of mud, in the air of the heart.

Nine months to your jam, not the sun,

That you are the secret of creation and the secret of awakening.

Hand in your hand, we see the infinite,

In every soul, your role in the life of the signs.

The heart in the air of your connection always burnt,

Blacking like a tulip full of cute and chanting.

Until I reached your visit, the light came and turned,

At night, the day was illuminated in my heart.

In the mirror of the right, I was the soil

By connecting you every moment, I was out of myself.

The one who did not see the jamal you never,

He does not know what love is and where the heart was flying.

#behnammohtarami#

Frome the glannce to the joiner

From the glance to the joiner

See one day, in the rose season,

The heart of your laughter like the sun

In my eyes a flame fell and went,

My cold mind was forgotten

Love came, quiet, unintentional,

Because the soft breeze, in my heart

Morning smiles in the sun,

Night, kissed my sleeping fantasy

Unaware of me, with cute,

The heart went through the alleys

Every step away, the disaster of my life,

Tears on the cheek, my guest

I wrote the letters of the joiner's enthusiasm,

With a hearty heart

It rained up until one night and it walked the door oh,

Come with the smell of jasmine and the moon

The eyes in your eyes, the world was lost,

It was a moment of my life, people became

You said: John, late but I came

I said: I will give you eternal

#behnammohtarami#

a little that the world thougt the world was in his hand

A little that the world thought the world was in his hand

Daytime

With ears up to the open -ended.

Said to the Sunshine.

"I am a code of the world, no need for permission!

And poison hit the ground

To find out what a master he has!

Said, “The policy is required,

I make two parties,

One leftist, one right! "

And stood on a hill

And the wisers,

The law wrote:

All the bumps are equal,

But I'm a little more! "

2 years have passed,

Every morning, with smoked glasses

Woke up

And in the mirror he said:

I am a democracy itself!

And the cake, the mass lines were lined up

To vote

To her,

Or to his copied version.

Until one day,

A strange object found,

Neither lion nor hunters,

But it smelled the truth!

And smell, for the donation of the congregation,

The worst is torture.

Gathering

With the scream of "conspiracy!"

Fled to the north,

Hidden behind the broken fences of history.

And the first donkey,

The same as the world -renowned

He stayed in the corner

And with regret,

To the poem hill

Stared at ...

#behnammohtarami#

The dawan of zebra

The dawn of a zebra

In the morning, with the first beams, the black zebra, which was always slightly different, opened his eyes. But today something had changed in his eyes. He saw himself in stagnant water next to the plain and smiled.

I'm milk!

He shouted loudly and said to the breeze with his imaginary edge. The herd of zebra looked at him with surprise. But he passed by the royal pride and kicked him to whomever he approached.

He said: This plain is my land. My government has begun.

The zebra, first, with doubt, then with surprise, and finally with fear, followed it.

He used to be a colors revolution, of the original black and white, from the law of modern nature ...

But it was not long before the plain was silent. The birds jumped. The breeze smelled hungry.

The lions came. Real, frustrated, flawless, unpopular.

The king's zebra stood first. He said: I am from you too!

But the milk just looked at her.

And when the teeth reached his neck, he realized that he was never milk.

It was only a zebra who dreamed in the morning.

And the flock?

Scattered.

And the plain, just heard the sound of the dreams.

#behnamm

شبحی در سایه ی قم

شبحی در سایه‌ی قم

در همان کوچه‌های تنگ قم، در حجره‌ای خاموش از مدرسه فیضیه، نخی ناپیدا بین تهران، لندن و دهلی گره خورده بود. نخ را فروغی با دستانی نرم، اما اراده‌ای آهنین تنیده بود. اما با رفتن او، بازی تمام نشد. بازی تازه آغاز شده بود.

با شکل‌گیری ساواک در دل رژیم شاهنشاهی، و تولد شاباک در آن سوی مرزها، صدای این نخ‌ها تیزتر شنیده می‌شد. حالا قم فقط یک مرکز دینی نبود؛ یک ایستگاه اطلاعاتی، یک شبکه‌ی مبهم مذهبی-امنیتی بود که هم به دربار وصل می‌شد، هم به نیویورک، هم به حیفا.

بنیاد علوی، که روزگاری تنها وقف‌نامه‌ای در گوشه‌ای از اموال شیعیان بود، به تدریج به بازوی اقتصادی این مثلث نامرئی بدل شد. در پس پرده، اموالی از موقوفات شیعیان، مدرسه‌ها، زمین‌ها، و حتی سرمایه‌های خرد مردم به نام دین و کمک به مستضعفان، به حساب‌هایی پیچیده در غرب منتقل می‌شد؛ برای "توسعه فرهنگی"، اما در حقیقت برای تثبیت قدرت شبکه‌ای که نامی نداشت و ساختاری مخفی داشت.

در ضلع دیگر، آغاخان هندی، با تبسمی موروثی و شبکه‌ای جهانی، فرزندانش را چون مهره‌هایی براق به شطرنج قدرت فرستاده بود. یکی در دانشگاه‌های غرب، یکی در شبکه‌های بانکی، و آن یکی، پنهانی، در رایزنی‌های سیاسی.

در تهران، خانه‌ای بود کنار سفارت اسرائیل. خانه‌ای متعلق به مردی به‌ظاهر بی‌ادعا، اما در حقیقت محور گفت‌وگوهای خاموش: محمدخان محتشمی. در آن خانه، دیدارهایی انجام می‌شد که در آن آیات قرآن با کلمات موساد در هم می‌آمیختند، و چای ایرانی در کنار کیک‌های لبنانی سرو می‌شد.

امیرعباس هویدا، نخست‌وزیر آرام، فرهنگی و فرنگ‌رفته‌ی دربار، هر هفته به این خانه می‌آمد. کسی نمی‌دانست برای چه. برخی می‌گفتند مشورت می‌گیرد، برخی دیگر می‌گفتند تنها شطرنج بازی می‌کند. اما کسانی که سایه‌ها را خوب می‌دیدند، می‌دانستند که قدرت واقعی نه در نیاوران، که در همین خانه‌های معمولی کنار سفارت‌ها پنهان شده است.

و هر روز که می‌گذشت، مثلث قدیمی فروغی جان تازه می‌گرفت:
در یک گوشه‌اش، علوی‌هایی بودند با عبایی ساده و نگاهی به شام.
در گوشه‌ای دیگر، آغاخان با ساعتی سوئیسی و لبخندی ابدی.
و در گوشه‌ی سوم، سیاستمدارانی که در ظاهر سکولار بودند، اما در عمل ستون‌های این معبد خاموش را نگه می‌داشتند.

و قم، که زمانی فقط شهری مذهبی بود، حالا به شبحی در سیاست ایران بدل شده بود. شبحی که با هر حرکت شاه، با هر تهدید غرب، و با هر پیام موساد، شکل عوض می‌کرد، اما هرگز ناپدید نمی‌شد.

#بهنام محترمی#